A slow breeze, laden with humidity and static, moved against our skin. It cast the smoke from our cigarettes into twisting shapes that lingered underneath the streetlamp

We were close enough, perched there on the back of my car, that his t-shirt brushed against my bare arm. We didn’t care about personal space. Nor did we care for the sanctity of 4 AM: our voices, his more than mine, boldly challenged the still darkness and the night only offered the weak hum of the streetlamp in response.

I could feel summer. It welled up inside my belly and poured out of me in words and laughter and smoke. It stilled the hands of time, letting eternities unfold between our words. We were infinite.